


Ink (Erwin Smith x Reader)

by alispropriisvolat



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst is my middle name, Erwin Smith Is A Little Shit, Erwin Smith Lives, F/M, Heavy Angst, I write a lot of angst, One Shot, Sad, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, So fun to write, Still sad tho, Yas, another one shot, but I fucking love him, don't worry he'll be okay, if you couldn't already tell I love tags, if you didn't already know, ive gone crazy with these tags, just another warning, okay stopping here, warning, what the fuck is a summary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24429634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alispropriisvolat/pseuds/alispropriisvolat
Summary: There is still ink staining his hands.And when he wakes up, they will remind him of what he did.
Relationships: Erwin Smith & Original Female Character(s), Erwin Smith & Reader, Erwin Smith/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 156





	Ink (Erwin Smith x Reader)

There's emptiness in the cold sheets next to her. 

The dark is late. It's missing the warmth of his company, the sound of his breathing; the torment of his nightmares. 

For the second night in a row. 

So for the second night in a row, her late-night footsteps sneak into his office. 

For the second night in a row, his late-night lamplight keeps him company. 

And for the second night in a row, he tells her his late-night lie — "I'll join you soon. Go back to sleep."

His voice sounds like his side of the bed — empty and cold. 

His eyes are a crumbling shade of blue. 

She can still see the latest mission; heavy in his clothes. The commander's uniform is always the heaviest. 

But tonight, the weight is different. 

"Erwin, what is it?" she asks. 

He glances up at her. There's a long moment of crumbling blue eyes. 

The ink of casualty reports stains his fingers. 

The dark ink that wrote: Mike Zacharias, deceased, age thirty-four. 

The dark ink writing: 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Zacharias, I regret to inform you that your son, Mike Zacharias, was..."

For another long moment, there's silence, a lost friend, and an unfinished sentence on his desk. 

There's a searching of words. Words for the quiet, for the sadness, for the sentence. 

She whispers across the lamplight, "I'm sorry." 

He shakes his head. Then a small, decayed smile. "There's nothing to be sorry about," he says. "It's part of the job." 

The blue in his eyes begins to put itself back together.   
Good and strong, nice and neat. 

He picks his pen up and finishes the rest of the letter. 

He writes apologies, about the bravery and honour of sacrifice, a final thank you. Nice and neat. 

And he signs the page. 

Sincerely, Commander Erwin Smith.

He pulls his hands away from his desk. 

They're smeared by colour of his guilt — the ink he writes his dead comrades' names in; the ink that he writes his condolences in. 

And there's some of it between her hands now, as she holds his guilty late-night hands in her own. She kisses his tired knuckles. 

Humanity, with its mourning flowers and sorrowful candlelight; in the cemetery's sunrises, in tears and grieving words. 

The Commander, with his distraction of paperwork and guilty, sincere ink; in his office's late nights, in her company and behind closed doors. 

It's the same pain, the same grief; just translated differently. 

He hides his voice in a whisper, in the hug he pulls her into. "Don't ever make me write a letter to your family. I know it's selfish of me to ask. But I just won't be able to. These letters are difficult enough." 

There are no promises; there's no expectation of them. Not in the Survey Corps. 

But for now, there are her fingers running through his hair and a small smile on her lips. And it's enough. 

"I'm still here, aren't I? We're still here," she says. "So let's not worry about that now, Erwin. It's late. Let's just go to sleep." 

"I can't yet," he murmurs. Exhaustion drags through his voice. "There's so much more to do." 

"And there will still be more to do tomorrow, and the day after that. You need to rest," she says. "Just come to bed tonight. Please?" 

His reluctance melts away when she kisses him. Eventually, they end up in his room. 

The dark is late. 

The latest expedition is on the ground, somewhere in the messy pile of his clothes. 

The sheets next to her are warm with his company and the sound of his breathing. 

The torment of his nightmares don't arrive on that night. 

He's allowed to forget his dead comrades' names, the condolences he owes to their families. 

But there is still ink staining his hands. 

And when he wakes up, they will remind him of what he did. 

That he is still guilty; in late-night lamplight, in early-morning sunlight too. At every hour of the day. 

In his sleep, he pulls her closer and rests his forehead against the nape of her neck. 

His hand wraps tighter around her own. She watches her fingers tangle with his. 

There is ink, but there is kindness, and gentleness, and lovingness in his touch. 

And they're all the things that she wants to remind him that he is, beneath his guilt, beneath the colour of ink.

**Author's Note:**

> One of my fave Erwin Smith x Reader pieces that I've written :) Also can be found on my Deviant Art acc: viresacquiriteundo! 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this piece! Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as you did writing it :) xx


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